


Anise

by CoelacanthKing



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-23 20:45:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17087447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoelacanthKing/pseuds/CoelacanthKing
Summary: A hankering for home, and the closest approximation on this side of the Mississippi.





	Anise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whereverigobillygoes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whereverigobillygoes/gifts).



Despite his best efforts, Goodnight Robicheaux had the tendency to work himself up into states of wistful reflection the further west he went. The sun-baked flats of Texas and the grass sprawl of Oklahoma were all well and good, but the tether that kept his heart pinned to Louisiana was a wicked thing that threatened to overcome him at times. This homesickness, if it could be called such a thing, would set his insides to wobbling, and in a rush, he'd bare his soul to the closest warm bodies around. Which, at the moment, included only a seemingly indifferent Korean.

“Beignets, Billy. Surely God has not truly abandoned us if beignets exist. What I wouldn't give to have a chair at the Cafe du Monde this very moment… I'll take you there, whenever providence sweeps us into New Orleans. You'll see what a mug of chicory coffee and a plate of beignets can do for a soul.”

“Mm,” said Billy, not unkindly, but with the tone he used to interface with aspects of the world he didn't quite grasp.

“I've not been able to get the pillowy little bastards out of my head. It's horrific, is what it is. I've no notion of what warrants such a cruel fate on my part.”

“Mm,” said Billy, who stuffed the edges of his shirt into his trousers, then hitched his belt higher over the cornice of his hips. Goodnight, from his supine position on the bed, momentarily set aside the travesty that had befallen him in order to watch Billy’s systematic dressing. He flicked the ash of his cigarette onto the floor, sniffed, then stubbed it out on the dresser and pocketed what was left for later.

“Woe be to us that we find ourselves so far away from the humid embrace of the Big Easy. This dry heat I can barely tolerate myself.”

“Mm,” said Billy, who finished his grooming long enough to lean over and give Goodnight's bare foot a squeeze. “Get your shoes on.” And with that, the knife fighter tipped his hat down over his brow, a saddle bag over one shoulder, and headed downstairs to see to their bill.

Goodnight didn't quite linger, so much as he moved with no apparent need to be anywhere anytime soon. But he did as he was asked, as casual as he dared, and soon he too was descending the warped inn steps with his own saddle bag, into the dusty yet spacious foyer on the first floor. A middle-aged man with a prominent widow's peak manned the front desk, and came to attention as Goodnight slouched against the oak countertop.

Noticing the absence of his companion, he asked the clerk, “By chance, did a man of Asiatic heritage come blowing through in the recent past?”

The man was momentarily floored by the combination of drawl and vocabulary, until he came around and answered, “Oh yes. Left his bags with our stable hand, went on over to the general store.” He pointed with a meaty finger over Goodnight's shoulder, through the runny glass panes of the windows to the building on the opposite side of the street.

“Ah. Then I'll require of you the same services you provided my cohort, and the added benefit of a pen and paper.”

He left his things with the horse boy, tipping him an extra cent, and continued loitering at the front desk as he spelled out a lengthy correspondence in his long and florid handwriting, explaining in length to the warrant office in Wichita on the completion of the Santa Fe job, his departure to Volcano Springs, and how all other business inquiries could reach him there. He ended the letter with his flourished signature, slid it across to the clerk, and said, “That’s meant for the telegraph office, if you’d be so kind,” before setting another penny atop it for good measure, and stepped out into the New Mexico heat with his craving for beignets continuing to gnaw at him.

Their horses, the sorrel and the bay, were saddled and hitched to the rail just outside of the inn, already packed and good to go. Sauntering down the porch steps, Goodnight was about to check if any of their belongings had been misplaced when he caught Billy’s inexorable sway out of the corner of his eye. Dodging foot and horse traffic, the man was toting a gunny sack over one shoulder, no doubt filled with whatever provisions they'd need on their way to Volcano Springs. At the sight of him the anxiety that always seemed to cinch down around the Cajun’s heart fizzled slightly, and he shimmied around his horse to intercept him with a tired grin.

“Everything right with the world?”

“Not everything.”

This elicited a bark of humor from Goodnight, whose gaze happened to slide across to the porch of the parallel general store, where a line of dirty roughnecks were observing Billy with irascible scrutiny. Their glowering brought Goodnight back down to earth, and he assured Billy, “Well. If that’s the case, I should think we’d be best off elsewhere, where our qualities would be better appreciated.”

This suited Billy just fine, and after throwing off the line and adjusting the sack over the pommel of his saddle he swung himself up onto his bay, tipping his hat even lower over his eyes. Goodnight followed his example, settling himself into the saddle for the long haul as the two of them turned their horses into the flow of the street, aiming for the closest exit out of Santa Fe.

  
That evening found them in very different settings; cradled in the gnarled embrace of a fallen cottonwood, they made camp amidst a growing chorus of cicadas and crickets as the sun began to drop into its house in the west. The matter of firewood turned out to not be an issue, as they stripped the dry bark and brittle woody bits away from the tree, and soon a cheerful little fire was popping away in the place they had stomped down.

Goodnight lay reclined on his bedroll, content with the simple meal they had cobbled together, already feeling drowsy and considerably less jittery. Towns were all well and good for baths and booze and beds, but the populations of such places pressed in on his anxiety and left him grossly unable to handle many social situations. The wilderness, for all it’s random and violent encounters, was by far preferable.

He was just about to drop off into sleep when he felt the gentle pressure of a palm atop his chest, and a knowing smirk pulled at the corners of his mouth.

“Cher, you ran me utterly ragged last night. But if you want something of a reprise, I’d be happy to-” He trailed off as he reached for Billy’s hand, only to have it slide out from under his, replaced instead by something that crinkled beneath his fingers. Puzzled, he sat up, hat tipping from its place over his face and onto his lap, to find himself cradling a cylindrical paper parcel, it’s ends tied off in twists akin to a Christmas cracker.

He moved his focus over to Billy, who now squatted by the fire and tended to any errant logs that could set something alight while they were asleep.

“I don’t know if they’re like beignets, but I think it’s the closest thing the store had.”

Now more than a little curious, Goodnight got to work at the corners of the parcel, unrolling the paper as delicately as possible in order to keep its contents unspoiled and in place.

Roughly a baker's dozen of small round cookies were packed side by side at the bottom of the parcel. There was a white pollen-like substance that clung to the inside of the paper, and Goodnight's eyes went wide when he ran a finger through the stuff, then sucked it clean. Powdered sugar. God almighty.

The cookies themselves were delicately coated with the sugar and looked to be studded with all manner of inclusions. The ones that had bracketed the ends of the parcel had shattered en route, and it was one of these fragments that Goodnight retrieved, studied, and popped into his mouth without further ceremony.

Anise. That was the first flavor he could register: heavy, redolent anise. And then there was cinnamon, bright as he bit down. The cookie had a buttery and stout crumb, like a shortbread, and he found pieces of pecan folded into it. He had always liked pecans, and accompanied by the aforementioned flavors- alongside tastes he wouldn't ever expect to experience out here, like orange and vanilla- he was absolutely sure they were his favorite now.

Goodnight sat there chewing, lost in the palate of earthy and florid delights. He swallowed, sniffed, and turned his attention to Billy, who had not stirred from his place by the fire.

“I adore you. Wholeheartedly. With unadulterated abandon. I'm going to petition the Catholic Church to canonize you. I'm not even Catholic. What the hell, Billy.”

Whether it was Goodnight failing to piece together his usual lofty vocabulary, or the fact that he knew he'd done a good job, Billy Rocks prodded a stray log back into the circumference of the fire, smiling.

**Author's Note:**

> My offering for the Magnificent Seven Secret Santa for whereverigobillygoes!
> 
> Biscochitos are soft buttery cookies native to New Mexico, but with culinary roots found in indigenous American and colonial Spanish influences. They're often considered holiday or celebratory cookies, can either be doused with cinnamon sugar or powdered sugar, and there is some matter of discourse over whether pecans belong in the recipe or not.
> 
> Spoilers: They do. Fight me.


End file.
